Pushing Buttons
by Sk8er Chica
Summary: The biggest disadvantage to having a twin is they know exactly how to drive you insane...


DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING!

A/N: This will be more like a collection of random little one-shots than a full fic probably. My first _Titans _story, so please be nice.

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(Angela's POV)

"_...Theeeey're gonna put me in the movies  
Theeeey're gonna make a big star outta me..."_

I'm ready to go upstairs and break my brother's neck. He knows I can't stand that song and he blasts it whenever it comes on the radio. I'm counting down the days until August 15th, when Alan will be at football camp and I won't have to listen to his music for two weeks.

"Alan, will you turn that off?" I yell in the general direction of the ceiling.

"Okay!" he yells.

"Thank God," I mutter to myself.

About a minute later, the music starts to filter through the floorboard at an even higher volume. I don't care much for Hank Williams, but at least it's a different song. I hear a lot of stomping around. You see, Alan has a dirty little secret: Not only does he sing in the shower, he dances around like he's in a Broadway musical. When he tries to catch his breath and sing at the same time, his voice goes even more off-key.

I'm tempted to turn on the kitchen sink so the temperature of the shower will get messed up and the assault on my ears will end. But Alan would go running to Daddy when he gets home and Daddy will say I should basically let Alan do whatever the heck he wants because he's gonna be a famous football player one day.

I notice the broom is propped up against the counter. I pick it up and start poking the ceiling with the end of the broomstick, just to see what effect it might have on my brother. The stomping changes tune, like Alan's trying to keep up with the music as well as my broom-jabbing. It's also faster. Suddenly, there's a loud splash, a thump, and a yell. I put the broom down and head upstairs. I probably better make sure he's okay. I knock on the bathroom door.

"Alan!" I shout. "Are you okay?"

He doesn't answer. I put my hand on the doorknob and start to turn it. Alan never locks the bathroom door, which really gets on my nerves. Why would I want to see him naked?

I open the door and stick my head inside. The music is still playing and the shower is running. Alan is lying on the floor in front of the tub, holding his back and whimpering in pain. Somehow, he managed get his boxers on before I got upstairs. Thank God for small favors.

"What happened?" I ask.

"I slipped." he whines, trying and failing to hide the tears in his eyes. "I landed on my back."

I decide to take him to the hospital right then. Back injuries are real serious and Daddy will go crazy if he comes home and sees Alan crying. I help him put on some sweatpants and a shirt I find in the dryer. It's my mint-green gingham summer blouse, but it'll have to do.

I help Alan get comfortable in the backseat of the black Plymouth we share, then I climb into the driver's seat. I drive the short distance to Alexandria General Hospital, where Alan and I were born, and half-drag him into the emergency room. The nurse at the desk gives us a funny look, probably because of Alan's shirt. I wag my fingers at her and she gives me a clipboard. I sign Alan in and give it back to her.

After like an hour (which was insane because we were the only people waiting), the nurse takes us to the back room. She listens to Alan's heart, weighs him, and takes his blood pressure, then tells us we have to wait some more for the doctor. Terrific.

When the doctor finally shows up, he gives Alan the same weird look the nurse did. I glare at him. He clears his throat loudly and looks at Alan's chart.

"What seems to be the problem, Mr. Bosley?" he asks.

Alan's crying too hard to answer now and I don't blame him. He's been waiting almost two hours, he's in pain, and they haven't given him anything for it.

"He slipped and fell in the shower," I answer for him. "He landed on his back and he's in a lot of pain."

The doctor lifts up the back of Alan's shirt to take a better look. I wince. Most of my brother's lower back has started to turn purple. The doctor lays his hands on Alan's back and starts gently rubbing and poking. I let Alan squeeze my hand and by the time the doctor's done, I feel like all the bones in my hand have been crushed.

"Well," says the doctor. "I couldn't detect any fractures. However, I recommend at least three days of bed rest. Plenty of ice to keep the swelling down. If that doesn't relieve his pain, have him take two of these every six hours." He hands me a bottle of pills.

"Thanks," I say.

I help Alan off the bed, out to the parking lot, and into the car. Once we get home, he flops to the couch on his stomach. I put together an ice pack for him, then I bring him two pills and glass of water. Alan downs the pills and his eyes start to glaze over after a while. The doorbell rings and I go answer it. It's Gerry Bertier, one of Alan's teammates.

"Hey, Angela," he says. "Is Alan at home?"

"In the living room," I say.

Gerry comes inside and talks as he walks over to the sofa.

"Hey, Alan, you missed conditioning today. Boone and Yoast sent me to find out where you went to," he says. "Boone says if you skipped 'cause of a girl, he's gonna..." Gerry trails off, stunned by what he sees in my living room.

Alan's smiling goofily and he's running his hands all over his shirt.

"Mmmm, this feels niiiiiice," he says happily. "I love my shirt."

"Um, isn't that _your_ shirt, Ang?" says Gerry, looking a little weirded out.

"I had to take him to the hospital and we left in a hurry," I explain, not wanting him to think my brother's a fruitcake.

Alan looks up at Gerry, his eyes unfocused. "Gerry," he says real slowly. "Why's your name spelled funny? It's like 'Berry' with a 'G.' I like berries. Especially blueberries."

I bite my lip to stifle a giggle. I'm not laughin' 'cause he's hurt, but 'cause those pills are makin' him say some mighty weird things.

"Do you like berries, Berry-With-a-G?" Alan asks.

Gerry looks like he doesn't know quite what to do. He thinks, then settles on saying, "What's the matter with Alan?"

"I think James Cagney can answer that himself," I say.

I dodge the sofa cushion Alan somehow sidearmed at me. Gerry laughs knowingly. Alan's secret is out.


End file.
